Dawn
by Azalea Rhoden
Summary: "He said he'd be back before dawn," Mitsuhide slowly repeated for the—no, he'd lost count two or three times ago.
1. Chapter 1

DAWN

* * *

"He said he'd be back before dawn," Mitsuhide slowly repeated for the—no, he'd lost count two or three times ago. Not that keeping track served any real purpose, other than giving him something else to focus on. Because they'd had this exact same conversation, over and over and _over,_ ever since he'd woken Zen.

"So where. The hell. _Is he_?"

The Prince stalked round the room, pausing to fling back the blankets on one bed, stooping to peer beneath another. Leaning over the third to check the narrow space between it and the wall. Like at any moment, he expected Obi to spring forth from—wherever he'd hidden himself—that stupid smirk plastered across his face.

 _And_ _gifting_ _the lot of them a heart attack in the process_ , Mitsuhide sighed, packing the last of his gear into his saddlebag.

"That _idiot_ ," Zen muttered, straightening. "We don't have _time_ for this." He paced over to the window; tossed aside the drapes for—Mitsuhide'd lost count on that front, as well.

But, as the sun slowly rose above the treetops—as more and more of early morning crept by without a poorly concealed snicker drifting out from some dark corner of the room—Zen's mood only sank further.

 _He should have stopped him._

Mitsuhide stood, shouldering his bag. "Maybe he's just running late."  
It certainly wouldn't be the first time Obi'd waltzed back to them, a full day behind schedule. Somehow radiating nonchalance, despite the blown deadline.

Zen clicked his tongue, then rounded on him.  
"Mitsuhide!" he ordered, "What were his _exact_ words?"

 _Not again – !  
_ Mitsuhide opened his mouth to speak, but a firm knock at the door saved him from the cycle.

Zen lunged, elbowing his way past Mitsuhide, fumbling briefly with the latch before yanking the door open.  
" _Kiki_!" he shouted, practically breathless. "Find anything?"

Kiki silently raised an eyebrow as the door slammed against the wall, one hand still raised in preparation for a second knock.  
"No one has seen him since last night," she reported. "But his horse is still in the stables."

"And the roof?" Zen ventured, still hopeful.

"I checked twice," Kiki crossed her arms.

Zen swallowed. "The market?"

But Kiki merely shook her head.

 _Nothing._

Zen's face, bright at the prospect of good news, dimmed by degrees until it finally sank back into a grimace.  
" _Seriously_ , that guy..." he kicked at nothing in particular and turned back into the room, pinching a lock of hair between thumb and forefinger.

Kiki stepped to the side as Mitsuhide joined her in the hall. "And you?" she inquired.

"Just his coat." He patted the bag at his shoulder, where he'd stowed it carefully amongst his own things. He'd already scoured their room as thoroughly—and as _quietly_ —as possible, racing the sun's relentless climb above the horizon.

Inside, Zen swore under his breath, wrestling with his saddlebag.

"Only the coat..." Kiki slowly echoed, dropping a hand to the pommel of her sword.  
"It was his writing," she mused.

"Yes," Mitsuhide agreed, glancing down the hall to where Shirayuki stood, just outside the room she'd shared with Kiki. She cradled her medicine kit in her arms and stared down at the crumpled note in her hand. At the short scrawl that completely flipped their morning on it's head.

 _He_ _ **definitely**_ _should have stopped him._

"What do you think?" He looked back to his partner.

 _Trouble was, they'd both agreed not to._

Kiki hummed, fingers tapping out a slow rhythm against her sword's grip.

Zen finally stomped into the hall, saddlebag slung under one arm and still grumbling. " _Seriously_. We're in the _middle_ of a _forest_. Where the hell did he _go?_ —If he's asleep up a _tree_ he's getting the morning watch for a _month_."

And with that, Kiki stopped tapping and turned toward the Prince.  
"Just a moment. I have an idea."

She pivoted on her heel and paced down the hall, toward the front desk and the innkeep.


	2. Chapter 2

DAWN 2

* * *

He thought Sir would put up more of a fight, he really did.

Sneaking out when that downpour already forced them so far behind schedule?

 _Sketchy._  
Even by Obi's standards.

So he expects Sir to take exception to this midnight jaunt. Readies himself for a tussle. Or at the very least, a lecture on the merits of a cozy bed in a warm, dry room as opposed to the dark and the wet and the muck.

 _Seriously._

For all his tender demeanor, the man's a force of nature.  
All brotherly advice and good cheer—until he steps into the arena and the prodigy of Sereg rears his head.

A single coin, two very different sides.

Obi still isn't sure which face is the real one.

Still.

It only took Sir a handful of turns in the training yard to learn—and then _predict_ —all of his favorite moves.  
Once the shock of landing on his backside twice in a row wore off, it morphed into a contest of sorts. Something of a spectacle, really. Highborn knights and nobility might scoff at their little game, but learning how to move—and _think_ —like a rouge has its advantages.

And maybe that's how Sir knows this isn't the usual lap around the perimeter to burn off excess energy. That this ' _I'm going out_ ' isn't simple code for finding a more secluded bed.

Canny, for a soldier.  
Too canny.

And yet.

Sir holds his tongue—even if his face tells a different story—and for that, Obi is grateful. He buries his nose in his scarf and slips out into the misty night.

* * *

Obi clings to the window frame while his vision adjusts to dim light.

A plunge into the dark alley would be simple enough, from their room on the third floor. He narrows his eyes as the shadows below coalesce into crates and barrels, boards and bricks. Inky splatters of foilage wrap around the cobbles while a cobweb of puddles reflect the starlight above.

Ivy flows up from the alley; blankets the walls of the inn barely a handspan to either side of his perch. He reaches for it, twines his fingers into the vine and tugs. Tendrils stretch taut but remain firmly rooted to their stone bed.

Obi ignores the plant and hoists himself skyward, fingers finding easy purchase between stone and sill and shutter. The chill air nips through his gloves but he warms quick enough with exertion.

Mortar crumbles beneath his boot—knocking against a pane of glass, nudging open the window underfoot. He clucks his tongue and quickly pulls himself into the rafters, lest the occupant proves a light sleeper.

Silence, save for the low hoots of an owl.

He breathes again.

Obi swings a leg up over the eaves and rolls onto the roof. Stands atop rough-hewn shingles and surveys the small valley around him.

The rain ceased hours ago but the heady scent remains, clinging with the persistent damp. Droplets pool together, catching and scattering moonlight in a thousand different directions. If the storm that drenched them holds together, it'll reach Wistal by dawn.

The wind shifts.  
It tugs at his limbs, drags pine-scented air across the valley in waves; each gust cooler than the last. The mists anchored in the shadow of mountains break free as the moon dips beneath the slowly retreating storm.

The witching hour fast approaches.

Speaking of…

* * *

She looms in the mist, a specter floating at the peak of the roof.

Thick clouds surge down the mountain, a silent landslide at her back as the stars dim once more. Night birds seek shelter under cover of aspen, pine and fir.  
Even they know better than to walk with ghosts.

Tendrils of fog roil round her; slurring her words, obscuring her gestures. Blending skirts and billowing long strands of hair into oblivion. The miasma thins just enough for Obi to catch a toothy grin, before the mists envelope the valley.

She cascades down the tiles in a mad dash, the muted clink of jewelry his only warning. He's scarcely time to raise his fists before she crashes into him, a malestrom of thrashing limbs.

Vapor showers his temple as he dips beneath a kick, taps aside a punch. At this range any wasted movement creates openings, creates opportunities, and she—wields a relentless flood in her search for his cracks.

Back, and forth.

Dodge, and parry.

Strike, and vanish.

He fends off wave after pounding wave, surfacing only to see the next crest over him.  
Obi drags the clammy air into his lungs, a sensation not unlike drowning.

He keeps his head up.

Thwarts her attempts to flow beneath his guard, to dive behind him, to force a stumble or slip.  
Still, he merely treads water in the face of her advance. One step back, then two—and his heel sinks into thin air.

She _lunges_.

But he expects as much—catches her fist in his hand. Digs his boot into the shingles, throws his weight forward, halts her momentum before she sweeps the both of them over the edge.

She laughs then, torrent finally ebbing in wake of mirth.

* * *

No freelancing.

Sir made himself _particularly_ clear on that front. Not that time or a change in environment eroded old habits much. The siren song of easy coin still thrums in his veins.

Still.

He's no desire to reacquaint himself with Wistal's holding cells.  
Nor does he feel much like toying with a sword-slinging grunt in the small hours of the morning. It's not like Touru'd even _offered_ to split the take.

Besides.

He can still make it—if he turns back now. Race down this mountain with all the ease of the spring melt. Scour the markets for a suitable peace offering and save himself at least half a lecture.

Obi stares up at the slumbering villa from his forest perch. At the slow tide of lichen, moss and vine flowing over the grounds, the gates, the walls. At crumbling stucco, crooked shutters, and cracked shingles.

And at the brightening sky beyond.

He's already made himself useful.  
She's perfectly capable of polishing up here.

He leans forward, coils his legs beneath him. Looses his fingers from the cord at his neck and straightens his scarf.

One lap.  
Once around the villa and if nothing looks –

The ear-splitting _crack_ of shattering glass above snares his attention. Obi knows he's invisible in this misty sea of foliage; still he's cautious as he climbes to higher branches, slips round the trunk for a better –

There she is, dipping beneath the silver flash of a hired sword's blade. The same one who chased him across three balconies—balking only when he took to the trees—somehow managed to corner her on one.

Damn fool.

Touru leaps, clearing another slash as one leg snaps out, heel crashing into the man's chin. Obi winces as the poor bastard topples like a drunk sailor on dry land.

She whirls gracefully in midair, one foot tapping down on the parapet—and promptly lurching out from under. She totters at the edge of the cliff, arms wheeling frantically to right herself—but her other boot skids off rain-slick stone and –

* * *

he dives.

He dives toward the villa, kicking and swinging off trees for momentum, tucking his limbs close to his body, urging himself to fall faster still.

Touru twists like a cat, pawing at air, at the tips of slim branches—anything to slow her plunge, to alter her path. To pull herself into the pines and away from the jagged scree below.

 _Faster_ , he flies.

 _Closer_ , she strains.

 _Almost –_

A branch slams into his guts and the world screams to a halt.

Obi chokes on a gasp.

Opens one eye,  
and then the other.

He doesn't remember closing them. He barely remembers jumping.

Still.

While the world ripples like a mirage before him, the trees no longer rush past. The echo of snapping pine slowly fades from his ears as the forest resumes its silent sentinel.

At least.  
He hopes it was the pine.

Bile rises in his throat, but he swallows it down again.

Glad of an empty stomach—he wonders at the absurdity of it all. Touru is not so lucky, dangling with her belts wrapped up in his fingers. She retches; a breathless, heaving fit that sets her swaying beneath him.

His shoulder shrieks in protest.  
Obi ignores it, kicking his legs to adjust their center. To keep them both from slipping off wet bark. Falling the remaining distance to the ground.

Not until they both recover enough of their senses to manage the drop.

The heights these nobles will go for a view.  
 _Seriously_.

His shoulder _twangs_ again, while his other arm pulses with a steady growing pain. Still he ignores it, straining against the branch, struggling to roll himself just enough –

Air, sweet magnificent blessed _air_ floods his lungs, drowns him in the petrichor of crushed pine and broken boughs. Dampens the incessant burn in his muscles, drains the lingering fog from his mind.

He ought to swing her onto another branch, sort out his own limbs. Make a cursory exam of his arm, see if the bone is still where it ought to be.  
The rush always makes it so hard to tell.

He ought to.

But for now, he breathes.

The first hints of day sink through the canopy, dribbling down amongst the gaps between fir needle and aspen leaf. Casting sprays of blinking light off each stray droplet in its wake, illuminating every dancing mote. The breezes wake too, whirling them round in melting pools of mist before setting them swimming through the trees. As the forest stirs, the sunlight rains down.

Ah.  
So much for that, then.

But as Touru slowly turns her head to peer up at him, well.

The look on her face _might_ just be worth it.

* * *

 _fin_


End file.
